i have sprayed you into my eyes
by neireah
Summary: The ambiguous relationship bounded by an aspiring amateur photographer and a free-spirited unengaged poetess. The story between them. SoMa Model AU.


_Huge thanks to all my tumblr-friends who helped me! Special thanks to Odat, who nicely edited this - also sorry for being slow. Enjoy!_

He adored Sundays.

They were the only days he could at least have 'a rest'. He normally had the full week-end for that, but he mostly spent Saturdays developing photos he took during the week at school, preparing projects, portfolios and such. Being a photographer had always seemed for people as a fancy and easy job but literally it wasn't so far. Soul could tell it, even by the short experience he had, the long hours he stood up, arching his back, holding the camera; the amount of shots taken for just one photo shoot was incredible — and so on. God, his eyes hurt after staying myriad times in front of his computer.

Sundays were so different, nothing could disturb him; JazzPianoman would spend all the day on tumblr, reblogging some shit, sometimes laughing hard like a maniac over stupid stuff, or maybe he'd finally catch up with the new animes that crossed his dashboard.

Eventually, sharing a flat with a troublesome lustful woman ( she acted like a cat ) named Blair, his days couldn't be really peaceful. Every saturday night she came back nearby 7 am, awfully drunk, throwing up an after party at their apartment, awkwardly twerking to techno music — then he'd hold her hair above the toilet bowl and bring her in her room.

She wasn't bothersome only for that, it was also the way she treated him, like once she jumped wholly naked over him, 'to wake him up', she said, the poor boy. He couldn't count anymore the times he got nosebleeds because of her. Anyway he was now used to see her stripped.

He liked her though, she was caring — she often called him "my kitten" — she was a nice person to be around, and he didn't feel alone. Plus she paid her bills since she worked so he had no problem.

But for once, his ruined sunday had nothing to do with Blair, nope. This fucking time, it was some blue-haired monkey, going under the name of Black*Star, who presumed to be an assassin; like he was a normal person already with this creepy name and creepy hair color, who ruined everything, because this time, he was the dumb one. Soul finally answered his phone, which was ringing for 10 minutes.

"I hope this is really serious, 'Star. Do you have an idea of what time is it?" he demanded, annoyed.

"MAAAAN this is fucking serious. It's about Tsubaki. You gotta help me, dude." His voice sounded a bit excited but quite calm for once.

"What is it?"

"You'll see, and yeah I knooooow this is really early, but I swear this time it's not a joke or whatever. Starbucks?" He begged him.

"M'kay. See ya in a while." Soul hung up, and put his phone on the bedside table next to his camera. Soul rolled on his bed lazily, not wanting to leave its warmth. He stared at the Canon, thinking of what he could do. Living in New York could be amazing but also boring, although there were plenty of things and places he could take photos of, but it was already done, surely, and New York was nothing new to him.

Actually these last days Soul was not inspired, a bit upset not to tell, he was loosing his creativity; school was monotonous, he didn't like how they teach photography there.

If there was something that he particularly hated much about photography was when people were posing purposely, miming fake smiles and trying to be "natural", as they pressumed. Yet, his point of view has always differed: letting the body doing whatever it desired to, yeah that was photography; or rather — he said that thousand times — capturing instants that the eye would, hence the spirit was air-headed and could easily forget them; so things should be spontaneous, not planned and premedidated. The photographer didn't create moments but seized them at the perfect timing. And even if these moments would be just printed on photo papers, they would be infinite. Extracting eternity from the bounds of the time.

He was so misunderstood.

But that wasn't the sole issue Soul met, like once, at the beginning of his career, some chick was modelling to make a press-book for a fashion agency, although only God knew it was his bane of his existence because it was annoying (to him). He recalled she had insisted he should use photoshop or something to clean up the defects, she had dared saying that gosh, and the worst part is that he had to and really did it, because the poor guy needed to earn a living — before entering the uni.

Using softwares for takes didn't really bother him, indeed colors and effects were fun, but it's just that common people never used these properly, yes they definetely not. He wasn't able to contain his laughter when he met persons in real life, a while before he saw them on instagram or some crap similar. And it was even worse since everyone actually think that they're professionnal photographers because their pictures are in black and white.

I should go or I'd fall asleep soon, he thought. He finally left the tepidity of his bed for the moist air of his room. He opened the window and stuck his head outside and inhaled. Even though the atmosphere was toxically wasted, he needed a bit of this feeling. The feeling of being fully alive. Perhaps the city bored him. Maybe not. Soul decided he'll pass by central park before joining Black*Star.

X

Sunday mornings were slow and beautiful when he didn't stay at home, the lazyass. The best Sundays in the city were the clear ones, those were the days he could take a stroll through central park and watch all the dog owners and puppies and all the old couples sitting on the benches talking about nothing and everything. He admitted that these days, only people who were a bit of old souls could be up early on Sundays, basically because most of the youth have partied their brains out or are over sleeping — like he'd be doing. Fewer people were on the streets so it was easy to shop, less cabs were trying to run people over to make the next buck. And by the seaport that is so calm and serene, watching the sun glimmer on the water as the ferries and water taxis pass by.

He was truly pleased to witness such scenes, mainly since he was more familiar with the shadows and highlights of the night than the bright lights of the day. He took silly photos of all the things he was seeing, from the insects of the damp ground to the birds flying in the cloudless sky. He also photographed people, but it was nothing distinct, he had already done this before. Maybe his expectations were a bit to high. He continued walking through the huge park, alert, seeking for something new, when he felt vibrations on his pocket.

"_WHERE ARE YOU IT'S BEEN A HOUR AGO WE TALKED"_

He checked his friend's name in his contacts to call him and was about to hold his head when suddenly he fell off to the ground with the weight of someone else. Someone ran over him and pushed him. So uncool. He dropped the cellphone from his ear and sat straight up, rubbing his head, and then looked who it was. Hopefully the camera was safe.

"I– I am really sorry, I didn't mean to."


End file.
